and in the evening after dinner a game of bezique with somebody, or the pleasure of watching somebody else play “patience,” and conversation of a not too thrilling kind. Should your hostess or any other visitor be exceptional, delight and pleasure can be extracted from notable talk; but in the case of ordinary men and women, it is very trying to meet together for the dismal satisfaction of being bored simultaneously. The proprietors naturally do not realise this. They have the excitement of receiving guests, whose arrival must be a change in the burthen of inalterable routine. But I have never left a French château without a feeling of sincere gratitude for not possessing one. The sensation of imprisonment, of futile chains, is oppressive. Here, as elsewhere, individuality is effaced by inexorable common law. To be original is to be amusing, no doubt; but, still more, unseemly and mad. You may be a little wild in speech, provided you walk the respectable step of your fellows without the slightest deviation. Your wit, if you happen to have any, will never be more appreciated, for on that ground the French are exquisite judges; but if you cross your knees, or pick blackberries, or dance a hornpipe, or climb a tree, or smoke a pipe, or whistle a tune (I mix up the offences of both sexes against French propriety), you are safe to go forth with a blighted reputation. Many years ago, before I knew these things, I shocked an amiable country gentleman and his son, a correct young officer down from St. Cyr, by breaking away from them to gather and eat lovely blackberries along our path. They told me it was considered extremely improper in France. They mentioned, upon pressure, so many other things that are regarded in rural esteem as improper, that I suggested writing, with their aid, the things a man and a woman (especially a woman) cannot do in France, but on consideration found it would make too large a volume. Here is exhibited the lasting charm of the French character. Had I said such a thing to an Englishman, imbued with a sense of his own correctness, he would have resented it as a foreign impertinence. My French host was charmed with a criticism which he understood to be meant good-naturedly, and added, “I have ever wondered at the reputation we give the English in France for excessive formality, for, personally, I have always found them to be a great deal more genial and easy than ourselves, and I readily recognise that we are much more formal.” When you read French and English newspapers, and see these two great races, the greatest of the world, showing their teeth like angry dogs, you might believe both nations incapable of a just or generous word of each other. Well, I, who am neither French nor English, can testify to the magnanimous recognition of national virtues of both to each other. A feeling of rivalry, of jealousy, of bitterness, may exist on either side, but I know none who have expressed more cordial admiration of British